SHAMBHALA SUN JANUARY 2013 69
I couldn’t admit how afraid I was, not even to myself. My
grief was a live thing, strong, dark, and foul. I was sure that, if
I turned to face it head-on, I’d be devoured.
I sat down to meditate, for the first time in my life, two years
after my brother’s death. My practice began as an exercise in
stress reduction stripped of spirituality—a successful way to
lower blood pressure, the book I was using promised—but it
felt like more. After a childhood of turmoil and doubt in the
Church; after an adolescence of anger, depression, and athe-
ism; after an early adulthood of anxiety, fear, agnosticism, and
heavy grief, was I capable of peace?
Breathing in I know we both suffer. Breathing out I want us
both to have a new chance... Our suffering, A new chance
Breathing in I want to be happy. Breathing out I want you to
be happy... My happiness, Your happiness
Breathing in I see us happy. Breathing out that is all I want...
Our happiness, Is all I want.
The first time I read these words of Thich Nhat Hanh’s, I pic-
tured my brother and I sitting cross-legged, facing each other
and holding hands, breathing in and out. Something inside me
shifted, and soon I could turn and face my grief.
I began to understand that peace wasn’t what I’d thought it
was. Peace didn’t mean escaping my feelings—it meant culti-
vating the ability to acknowledge and honor them.
Even now, nearly a decade later, I still think of my brother
when I sit. I picture him across from me, with a smile easier
than the one he wore in life, and I
know that both of us have found
some peace.
KELLEY CLINK is a writer and
amateur photographer in Chicago.
She is currently working on a mem-
oir about her brother’s suicide.
Occupy Heartbreak
MARGARITA MANWELYAN
IT’S A WINDY October Wednesday afternoon in 2011, and I
am heading down to Liberty Plaza to meditate at the occupa-
tion of Wall Street. I feel an ache in the center of my chest and
a lump in the back of my throat that I can’t swallow away. It
hurts and it hurts and it hurts. The one I loved and trusted has
kicked me to the curb:
“This is not working for me.
Please don’t take it personally.”
My pain is real, but this
Occupy movement is also real.
So I’m taking my aching heart,
my eyes puffy from tears, my
ambition, my yearning for unity
and justice, and I’m hopping the
4 train to the Financial District
in Lower Manhattan. Who
knows what will happen? It’s a
daring escapade: opening to what is, to reality, to the dharma
of the here and now. It’s magic and it’s heartache, sharp, tangy,
sweet, spicy, and real.
Why do I go? Because I care. How do I know? Because it
hurts. Tears spring up for the 99%, for the 1%, for myself, for
humanity, for farm animals, for lonely companion animals,
for endangered wild animals, for fish in the sea, for birds free
and captive, for the planet. Our world is tender, raw, hurt, and
angry, and yet remains unconditionally loving in this magnifi-
cent present moment.
We are all in this together. There is much to be done, and
somehow that actually feels encouraging.
MARGARITA MANWELYAN is a yoga teacher and writer who
lives in New York with her dog, Hershey. She is a member of the
OWS (Occupy Wall Street) Meditation group.
How May I Help You?
SOPHIA AGUIÑAGA
THANK YOU FOR CALLING. How many in your party? I’ll
need your insurance information. Our special today is lemon
cream custard. Do you have an appointment? Your photos
will be ready in an hour. Let me know if you need another
size. Blush and foundation are on sale through Monday.
These shoes have clearly been worn outside. Are you saying
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